Witch Test, page 11
“A masterpiece,” Cameron says as we quickly clean up. “See you tomorrow.”
I like how he says it like he expects me to come. They have already fit me into place in their lunch arrangement. I’m not sure why they’ve decided to take me in—out of pity maybe. I’ll take it. Their acceptance makes walking back out into the hallway, with my classmates’ whispers and stares, a little bit easier.
Chapter 26
Mirror Image
My unproductive art lunch carries me through to English where we go beyond the text of The Crucible to learn about the real people who were the victims of the Salem witch trials.
I keep my head down as much as possible, letting my hair hide my face, but it feels like every eye in the room finds me at some point during the class. Finds me and judges me. I barely hear anything Mr. Juno or my classmates say.
We’re supposed to turn in our first drafts for the assignment about who’d we miss. I hang back after the bell rings, pretending to look for something in my bag.
I feel more than see Mr. Juno come over. “I understand you need more time with your assignment.”
He must have talked with the principal, and I’m relieved I don’t have to explain.
“Yes.” I keep my focus on my bag to avoid looking at him.
“By Friday then.”
I manage a nod and rush from the room. I keep it together all the way through the bus ride—helped by the fact that Abby isn’t there.
When I get home, I slam the front door behind me and slide to the floor without bothering to take off my backpack. My aunt says to breathe is to cleanse the body. But there doesn’t seem to be enough air in the world to wash away the awfulness inside of me.
The more I think about breathing, the less it feels like I can do it. My struggle for air grows more frantic the harder I try, hitching in my chest until I’m on the floor, my cheek pressed against the cold wooden boards.
A sob finally breaks through, and it’s the crying that cleanses me. It returns the breath to my body, though it does nothing for the ache in my chest.
I can’t think another minute about that stupid list. I retreat upstairs to my room, but the walls are too closed in. In the bathroom, I splash water on my face. My skin tingles, my whole body is restless.
I pace the hallway, avoiding the art studio. I pause at the doorway to my dad’s bedroom. It once belonged to my mom as well, but nearly all traces of her have been gone from it for as long as I can remember—all but one.
A massive vanity takes up almost the whole wall along one side of the room. It’s an antique, the distressed white paint decorated with dainty pastel flowers and vines running along the edges and up around the mirror. The late afternoon sun shines in from the window. Shadows of the leaves from the tree outside dance along the surface, so the painted flowers look like they’re dancing too.
The vanity is empty on top except for a framed picture of my mom. The frame is a gaudy fake gold that my artist mom probably would’ve hated. I hate it.
I wonder what else graced the vanity when she was alive.
I imagine bottles of perfume and make-up strewn across the top, a paintbrush or two in the mix. Maybe a few fashion scarfs, like the ones Felicity wears, draped over the edge of the rounded mirror, partially blocking my mom’s view of herself. My mom’s mess a contrast to my dad’s neat and tidy.
Without having done it on purpose, I find I’m sitting on the vanity’s bench. It’s upholstered in a white, silky fabric that’s embroidered with white flowers that match the ones on the vanity in style if not in color. The fabric is spotless, not a mark or stain on it, which makes me rethink my mom being messy.
I could ask Aunt Candy. A few years ago, I probably would have, but I’m tired of always having to ask about my mom. Plus I’m starting to suspect that what I’ve been told isn’t the whole truth. I think the adults in my life have painted their own picture of my mom for me, one that leaves a lot of white canvas.
The photo of my mom is the same one I have in my room. It’s black and white and a close-up shot of her face. My mom’s head is tilted to the side, her smile wide like she just finished laughing. One of her front teeth is slightly crooked but in a cute way. Her straight hair is loose and wild like it is blowing in the wind. Her eyes are focused off-camera, maybe at the person taking the picture.
She looks so alive. I wonder if my dad has more photos of her stashed away in a box or on an old hard drive somewhere.
My face in the mirror looks a lot like hers with my small nose and too-big eyes. If my mom’s diary is to be believed, we look a lot like the girl from her dreams, sharing more than a name. I push the girl out of my mind because right now I want to know more about my mother.
The shadows dance along the vanity, deepening as the light outside fades. They bring my attention to the drawers, three on each side. I open the ones on the right first and find them completely empty. It’s like they’re mocking the way my mind is empty of my mom, not a single memory of her in there.
The top two on the other side are empty as well. I almost don’t bother with the last one, but my fingers twitch in their desire to open it, so I let them. The drawer sticks and I yank harder.
My thoroughness is rewarded when it finally jerks open, the effort almost sending me backward off the bench.
This drawer contains a book, and I think, Great, another diary.
My breath blows out in relief when I realize it’s only a Bible. The cover is black with embossed gold lettering, faded with time. I run my thumb along the edges of the pages. The spine is soft and old underneath, and a musty smell rises up. This is a very old Bible.
I gently set it on top of the vanity. Like a habit, it falls open to a page toward the back, one that must have been turned to a lot because the pages separate all the way to the spine in the middle.
It’s a vine of lines with names on them in different people’s handwriting. On one side of the page break in a fancy scrawl are the words “The Treat” and on the other side the “Family Tree.”
Some of the names are difficult to read because the ink is faded and the writing is in tiny cursive. All throughout is one name that is easy to pick out: Elizabeth Treat. My own name among them at the bottom below my parents.
I scan the names for the very first Elizabeth Treat and find it on the second row from the top with the dates 1650 - 1663 written in parentheses. She’s the girl from my mom’s dreams.
Goose bumps pepper my arms. Before I can process what I’ve seen, the front door squeaks downstairs and then slams shut. I quickly shove the Bible back into the drawer. I run to my room, jump onto my bed, and pull my phone out of my pocket.
There’s not much to see, though I’m sure if I checked my old accounts, they’d be blowing up with drama over the list.
My dad stays downstairs. I hear him washing up in the kitchen, so my hasty escape from his room was unnecessary.
My phone buzzes with an actual notification. I prepare myself for the worst when I swipe the screen. My insides settle when I read a text message from Daya.
Lunch was fun today.
I type in a quick yes with a happy-face emoji and hope it doesn’t come off as too desperate. This lunch retreat could be an antidote to the poisoned potion that is my life.
Chapter 27
Halloween Plans
I have finally found my focus in the lunch art sessions. We’ve been meeting every day, and Mrs. Farmica joins us on occasion to work on her pottery. Aside from the occasional comment on our work, she pretty much leaves us alone.
Over the last week, things over that stupid list have cooled down. My ex-friends found a new target for their torture in Anthony Rodriguez. I think they’re mad at him for breaking up with Gabrielle, though I don’t think they were a couple for very long. Then again, it doesn’t take much to rile them up.
My hand shakes as I think about the next way Abby will try to ruin my life, especially now that I’ve decided to go to the corn maze. I accidentally paint a big gray stripe over an area I didn’t want to paint yet.
“Shoot!” I say, and Daya looks over.
She glances at the clock and sets down the pile of headline clippings she was sorting. “I think I’m done for today.”
I wipe off the worst of the offending streak, but the mark doesn’t entirely come clean. “Yeah.”
Cameron shakes his messy hands. “Well, I’m never going to be done with this. I can’t get the shape right.” All week he has been adding strips of goopy newspaper to his bust, which is sort of the right shape.
We clean up early and by some kind of unspoken agreement decide to actually eat.
Daya munches on a chip thoughtfully. “A little over a week until Halloween. How’s your costume coming along?”
“Good,” I lie.
Daya, Cameron, and I each picked a different witch to dress up as. I had a hard time settling on who to be until I came across a rather obscure witch from Irish mythology called the Morrigan. I don’t know much about her, except that she can take the form of a crow, so that’s all I needed to make my decision. I have yet to work on my costume.
I’ve avoided reading more of my mom’s diary, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the girl my mom summoned, Elizabeth Treat. Much of my free time has been spent scouring the Internet to find out more about her.
It has kept me from overthinking the plans for going to the corn maze. Abby’s threat to end me if she sees me outside of school has me more scared than ever to go, but I don’t want to back out on my new friends.
At first, the plan to go as witches seemed like a good way to show Abby I don’t care about being called one, but the more I think about it, the more it feels like I’m asking to be murdered.
Cameron interrupts my thoughts. “Should we do a trial run on make-up this weekend?”
I’m holding a carrot stick but not eating it, instead tracing shapes on the table. “I’m working the farm stand all weekend.” I groan when I think about how busy it’ll be, probably the busiest weekend of the year.
“I guess we’ll have to wing it,” Cameron says.
“You’ll be brilliant no matter what,” Daya reassures him before turning to me. “What time should we come over on Halloween?”
It’s the perfect time to tell them I can’t go, that I’ll be too tired after working all next weekend too. Instead I say, “Does four give us enough time?”
The maze opens at 5:00 on Halloween for the little kids to have their turn before it’s fully dark. Then we get our shot at 7:00.
Cameron answers as his job of doing our make-up will take the longest. “That should be good.”
“I’ll bring snacks.” Daya dips a pea pod in hummus.
Meanwhile, I’m still fake drawing with my carrot stick. “I’ll throw something in the instant pot.” It’s amazing how calm my voice sounds when my insides are churning.
When we leave the art room, hardly anyone whispers behind my back in the hallways, but I can’t get Abby’s threat out of my head. She’s barely looked at me since our visit to the principal’s office, but it feels like she’s keeping low until it’s time to strike and ruin me for good. Sticking with the plan to go to the corn maze has me questioning my sanity through the end of the school day.
I’m muttering to myself as I go through the back gate into the garden behind Candy’s shop. A crow sits like a statue on one of the fence posts. I’m pretty sure it’s the one from my painting, though its wings are tucked tight to its sides so I can’t check for the distinct markings. What other crow would be hanging around?
Randi honks once as I walk down the path, but she stays in the little pond on the other side of the garden.
“Hi to you both,” I say. I’m getting used to talking to birds.
For once Candy has no tarot clients, but the store is busy. I hang around behind the counter and watch my aunt help a woman pick out candles.
From their conversation, it sounds like the woman is preparing for spell work on Halloween night. At the mention of the “thinning of the veil,” a shiver runs down my spine. Fourteen years ago right in this very shop, my mom and aunt summoned a ghost.
I ring out the woman with the candles while Candy helps a customer with gemstones. The bell over the door rings and four girls from my school come in. They’re popular seventh-graders, like mini versions of Abby and my ex-friends.
By the way they start whispering when they see me behind the counter, I know the rumors have reached down into the lower grades. Ugh.
They shoot me looks as they walk by the counter but start acting secretive when they reach the cupboards of herbs. I move slightly to my left to keep an eye on them.
One of them reaches for a bundle of sage, but a second girl slaps her hand. “Not that.”
The girl who spoke has curly dark hair and a lot of dark eye make-up. She’s the shortest but is clearly the leader based on the way the others hover around her and glance at her for approval.
“We need white sage,” she says.
They’re checking the bundles, putting their hands all over them, when my aunt comes up behind them. “Can I help you find something?”
Everyone but the leader jumps. “I don’t see any white sage.”
“I don’t carry white sage.” Candy’s voice is cheerful, but I hear the slight note of tension behind it. I’ve heard my aunt explain to customers that white sage is sacred to certain Indigenous cultures and most of what is on the market is unethically harvested. “Might I suggest this instead?” She reaches around the girls and pulls out a tightly wrapped bundle of lavender and sage. “It has a lovely aroma.”
The girl puts her hands on her hips stubbornly. “I read to use a white sage smudge stick.”
“Those are for very specific spiritual rituals,” Candy says with more patience than I would ever have with these girls. “This is perfectly suited for a regular cleanse.”
The leader is so annoyed that I wouldn’t be surprised if she stomped her foot. She’s so much like Abby. I bet she’s super fake polite when anyone important—meaning anyone that could actually punish her for her actions—is watching and the worst kind of brat when she thinks she can get away with it.
To watch this girl treat my aunt this way makes my stomach boil with anger. I clench my fists under the counter.
My aunt simply stands there, holding out the bundle politely. The girl lets out an exaggerated breath and takes it like it’s the last thing in the world she wants. The other girls stand there nervously, watching the whole thing unfold. That used to be me, standing beside Abby, always waiting for whatever horrible thing she would do next.
“Can I help you with anything else?” Candy asks.
“Candles, chalk, and a crystal,” the leader says with a clear lack of respect in her tone.
Candy points to the back wall. “Candles and chalk are over there. You can find clear quartz with the gemstones by the front counter.”
The leader shoots Candy one last rude look and snorts before moving to where the candles are, her minions in tow. I clench my fists so tight they hurt. I want to walk right over to that girl and punch her in the face for the way she’s treating my aunt…for the way she probably treats so many other people.
Then I realize only a small portion of my anger is for her; far more of it is for my former best friend, and the rest is for me. Maybe I wasn’t leading the charge, but I stood by enough times to be as bad as Abby. One thing I know from all of Abby’s lawyer talk is that accomplices can be found guilty for helping with a crime, and that’s what I did so many times.
Chapter 28
Witchiest Witch
With the stink of shame on me, I stalk through the beaded curtain. I let my aunt ring out the girls, so I can avoid the ugly parts of myself they remind me of.
Once the bell on the front door signals them leaving, Candy joins me. “Tea, my love?”
“Yes.” It comes out as not much more than a whisper, so I clear my throat.
My aunt pretends not to notice my state of agitation and fills up the electric kettle, babbling on about those girls. “They are certainly up to no good with the sage and candles and chalk.”
I find my voice as we sit across the little table from one another. “Do you think they were going to do a spell?”
“Well, I don’t think they were planning on playing hopscotch.” She notices the confused look on my face. “It’s a game where you draw boxes with chalk and toss a pebble and hop on one foot.”
I shake my head because I’ve never heard of the ridiculous-sounding game.
“It was old in my time,” Candy says, “so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you have no idea what I’m talking about.” She pours the tea, the steam billowing out with a strong raspberry scent.
“Do you ever worry about what people do with the stuff they buy?” I think of my mom and Candy summoning the girl from my mom’s dreams and shudder at what other people might be doing—people who aren’t skilled like my mom and Candy.
“I do,” she says more solemnly than I expect. “Not those girls. I doubt they could kill a housefly with magic, never mind do any real witchcraft. Most of my regular customers I know well enough that I don’t worry about them either.”
She sets mismatched teacups in front of us, along with a plate of scones. “But every once in a while, someone comes in here, and I can feel they’re up to no good. Those are the people that worry me.”
“Would you ever refuse to sell to someone?” I take a sip of tea, and a burst of fruity flavor fills my mouth.
“Only once.” Her gaze takes on a faraway look for a moment. Then she recovers and breaks off a piece of almond scone. “I don’t sell any one item that is particularly dangerous. But it’s amazing what a powerful witch can do with seemingly harmless ingredients.
“There will be those who abuse the ingredients for wicked purposes and those whose ignorance in using them might do harm. But do we hold the grocery store owner responsible for a chef who mishandles the food and gives their customers food poisoning? Would we bring charges against the pharmacist if one of their customers poisoned someone with medicine?”
